


It's going to be okay. I've got this. I promise.

by Illyah



Category: Shameless - Fandom
Genre: 4x11, Coming Out, F/F, Happy Ending, M/M, Mention of canonical rape and abuse, Multi, Re-write, Violence, bipolar, but sort of canon, not canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 16:34:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6618112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illyah/pseuds/Illyah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Okay you two, someone needs to tell me exactly what the fuck happened, and I want to know, now.” Lip said, staring between the two, waiting to see who would answer him first.</p><p>Lip had never seen a serious look on Iggy’s face the entire time they’d known each other, but he looked Lip straight in the eyes and said “Terry.”</p><p>“Shit, fuck, Jesus, Goddamnit.” Lip cursed under his breath before turning to Amanda’s horrified parents, almost to the door at this point. “Yes, your delicate sensibilities are more fucking important than the half dead teenager on the table. Jesus fucking Christ.” He fumed, shaking his head. “Please, just continue to stand there and look fucking scared.” Then back to Iggy, “Terry did this? Why? I thought you guys were all at Yev’s thing?”</p><p> </p><p>This was only supposed to be 500 words or so about 4x11. It seriously got away from me. It's my first work in this fandom, I hope you like it. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's going to be okay. I've got this. I promise.

“LIP!” He hears Ian’s voice screaming as he comes through the door. “Excellent,” he thought to himself, anything Ian related would just make the situation with Amanda’s parents worse. Everything was working out swimmingly. Until-

“Lip! Clear off the fucking table.” Oh shit. Lip hurried Bonnie’s siblings up the stairs, and advising Amanda’s parents that maybe they should reschedule. They moved into the kitchen area near the stove and away from the table after cleaning it.

Lip stops in the kitchen doorway staring at the new arrivals with a horror struck look on his face. This wasn’t fucking funny anymore. Ian was standing in the living room with Iggy Milkovich each of them with one of Mickey’s arms over their shoulders, head lolling down, his face dripping blood all over the floor.

“WHAT THE FUCK, IAN?!” Lip shouted and Ian was momentarily transported back to the time Mickey had gotten shot by Jimmy’s mom while Fiona was busy trying to dig up Aunt Ginger. But of course, Fi was in prison and this was so so much worse than that.

“Carl, go get V.” Lip said quickly, slipping into Fiona’s old role for the time being. “Get him to the table. Is he even conscious?” He asked, wondering if maybe this was about their ghetto doctor pay grade, because the man looked like he was about to keel over any second.

“Fuck you Lip, I can fucking hear you.” Mickey said, and it sounded wet. They finally got Mickey up onto the kitchen table, with Amanda’s parents looking on, horror-struck, before turning and heading out toward the front door. Amanda had thankfully gotten all the kids upstairs before they’d seen their new guests. Somewhere in between the living room and the kitchen Mickey had passed out. It was only now that Lip noticed Iggy’s two black eyes and Ian bloody nose and how he had one hand tightly wrapped around his ribs.

“Okay you two, someone needs to tell me exactly what the fuck happened, and I want to know, now.” Lip said, staring between the two, waiting to see who would answer him first.

Lip had never seen a serious look on Iggy’s face the entire time they’d known each other, but he looked Lip straight in the eyes and said “Terry.”

“Shit, fuck, Jesus, Goddamnit.” Lip cursed under his breath before turning to Amanda’s horrified parents, almost to the door at this point. “Yes, your delicate sensibilities are more fucking important than the half dead teenager on the table. Jesus fucking Christ.” He fumed, shaking his head. “Please, just continue to stand there and look fucking scared.” Then back to Iggy, “Terry did this? Why? I thought you guys were all at Yev’s thing?”

Mickey picked that moment to wake back up “Fuck Terry. I win. I’m not fucking scared of him anymore.”

“Wait, seriously? That’s what this is?” Lip choked out, because he had heard from Ian what happened the last time Mickey’s sexuality had mixed with his extremely bigoted father.

“What happened?” Amanda’s Dad asked, and Ian could tell he would rather be anywhere else than right there. Ian sighed and looked down at his boyfriend. “This,” Ian said sadly, “is what happens when you come out on the South Side.” He finished, carding his hands through Mickey’s hair.

Mickey half chuckled, half-groaned, “worth it.” And then more quietly, “Ian-it hurts.” V arrived right afterwards with a distinctly frightened looking Carl behind her. Carl loved non-consequential violence. But this was Mickey, who had become kind of like a big brother to him since he had brought Ian back, and Carl was pissed and afraid.

“Is he gonna die?” Carl asked Ian.

“No, I’m not gonna fuckin’ die. Jesus fuck.” Mickey said, “if I die, who the hell is going to keep your ass outta the clink?”

Amanda had returned downstairs by this point after telling Lip she had the kids sorted out and saying hi to V.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Milkovich, who’d you piss of this time?”  V tried, knowing her voice was strained, but trying to make light of the situation. She knew what happened, Kev had called her immediately after Terry had been picked up outside the Alibi, and She’d already been getting her shit together by the time Carl came over asking for her help.

Turned out Mickey had some broken ribs (okay, fine, if we’re splitting hairs, almost all his ribs), his left eye was swollen shut, his shoulder was dislocated and three fingers on his right hand were broken.

After V was done, Ian carried Mickey upstairs, and he didn’t think he’d ever seen the man look so fucking small. That was the worst part of it for Ian. Mickey might be short but he was always a huge presence, and Ian hated Terry for so many things, but nothing more than making his angry, loud, and rude son small. Lip had offered Ian and Mickey his room for the night, and Ian gently laid Mickey down on the bed, sitting beside him and stroking his hair. “God, I’m so sorry Mick. I never should have pushed this, this is all my fault.” He said, finally feeling the tears come.

“’s not.” Mickey said, opening his eyes and dragging his hand down Ian’s cheek. “’s Terry’s. Everything is his fault. It’s his fault that I’m like this-not gay-I don’t give a shit about that,” he told Ian seriously, knowing that Ian needed confirmation of that. “He fucked me up so bad Ian, he made it so I couldn’t love you for the longest time. And I hate him for those years…” He continued and Ian was sure this was the painkillers finally effecting Mickey, because there was no way that he would ever be this honest. “I hate that he made me so fuckin’ shut off that I couldn’t give you what you needed. But it’s okay. I’m going to take care of it. I promise, Ian. He can’t hurt us anymore. I love you, and I’m going to protect you-all of us. You, me, Lana, Yev, Mandy, Iggy, Colin and Joey.” Because Mickey knew there was no way that Terry was going to let it go that his perfect South Side Nazi family had publically sided with their fag brother over the father. If Mickey didn’t fix this and make sure he never got out, they would all be punished and he’d probably go after Ian’s family just for good measure. Mickey couldn’t let that happen. If they couldn’t all be free of him forever, they would all pay. Most people only knew a little about the Milkovich family. They knew that their house was the place to get the best coke in the neighborhood. They knew that Terry liked to gay bash and always brought his kids with him, knew that Mickey always hit the hardest-they knew his kids were mouthy and dirty, crass and dangerous.

Ian sat there with Mickey until he fell asleep, before going downstairs and joining his family and Mickey’s brother.

Mickey dreamed about everything that night. He dreamed of his Dad, which wasn’t unusual, he father had been nightmare fodder for the last thirteen years, but tonight he dreamed about his mother, too.

So, South Siders thought they knew about the Milkoviches, but what they didn’t know, and what Ian didn’t know was that the first time Mickey thought Terry was going to kill him he was five years old. Mickey had come home from kindergarten with the picture, hoping his mom would put it on the fridge. His dad took one look at it and ripped it into pieces because the teacher said to draw pictures of their friends, so Mickey had drawn himself, with black hair standing next to a boy with red hair, holding hands on the playground. Ian wasn’t exactly his friend at the time, but Mickey had thought he was pretty. He was five and had no idea what that meant.

He had run all the way home to show his dad because he was so proud. “What the fuck is this?” Terry roared at him, shaking his shoulders roughly, and back handing him into the wall where he cracked his head on the door jam. “Teacher said to draw my friends and I don’t have any friends and I just thought the boy was pretty and maybe someday he could he my friend.” Mickey cried. In his house, you were allowed to cry until you were six, then you started getting ass kicking’s.

“You know who hold hands with boys Mikhail?” Mickey shook his head as his father grabbed him by the front of his shirt. “Fags hold hands with boys, do you want to be a fag, Mickey?” He’d heard that word before, he knew what it meant, well not really but he knew that his dad REALLY didn’t like those people, whoever they were, so he shook his head. “Better fuckin’ not.” Terry sneered at him before shoving him back once more, watching his head hit the doorjamb and fall unconscious on the floor.

He woke up six hours later with a monster headache, a tear stained face, and Mandy standing over him with a glass of water. She was only four, and she was crying. “Mick, Mick” she hiccupped he stood up, hugging his sister tightly and telling her she could sleep with him tonight.

Mickey went to bed for the first time, hating himself, because he knew one day, his Dad would kill him. Because somehow, even at five years old, he knew he couldn’t change this. It just was. It was like how he had black hair. So, he got sad, and then he got angry. And that’s when Mickey Milkovich was truly born. Over the years he became ruthless, thinking that he could hide from his father behind violence, and that if he just hit hard enough, his father might forget that he’s hated his son every day since he was five years old.

The second time Mickey thought his dad was going to kill him was when he was eleven, his dad shoved a bat in his hand and told him they were going queer hunting. Mickey already wanted to throw up, but went along. Terry found his target and started shouting at Mickey that if he didn’t “participate” to the best of his ability, it would be him lying on the ground. So he did. “See son?” He told Mickey after they got home, “that’s what Milkoviches do the fags. Even their own.” He said before walking into the kitchen to grab a beer.

“The fucks that about?” a teenaged Iggy asked him.

“The fuck do I know?” Mickey shot back, thankful that his room was attached to the bathroom, and spent all night puking and crying and hating himself. One day, he promised himself, he would be free of Terry. It didn’t matter that by then he’ll have probably knocked up some hood rat with too many children already and settled down to a life of drugs, booze, and side pieces. He had already figured out that he was never going to make it out of South Side, so he might as well settle for the next best thing. Eventually being rid of Terry.

For the next five years, Mickey was a model child. He was the angriest and the scariest Milkovich of them all, because he had more to hide. He was the leader of his siblings, and even his dad seemed to have backed off-or more likely, had finally done enough drugs to forget that his son brought a picture of a red-haired boy home from school all those years ago and though he’d never tell-the same red-haired boy was currently lying beside him, stroking his hair and leaving light kisses on his shoulders while he slept.

Mickey woke up for a few seconds after the second dream, turning over and looking at Ian, who was sleeping a bit fitfully. Probably lose in his own nightmares. Mickey was okay with reliving all his father’s terrible deeds, because an idea was forming in the back of his mind, not quite concrete enough to be fully formed, but no longer floating in the in between.  He took more painkillers and fell back asleep, dreaming about the third time his father had tried to kill him. This time, Ian had been there. He remembered his dad calling for Lana, and before she got there, while Ian was still knocked out on the floor, Terry looked him in the eye and said “You’re going to listen really fuckin’ carefully, you little fucking queer. You’re going to do exactly what I tell you to, or I’m going to shoot the red-haired pole smoker in the back of the head, do you fuckin’ understand me, you little piece of shit?”

“Yes.” Mickey gritted out. Face bruised and bloodied and the worst yet to come. “Now get his ass up and in the chair.” Terry ordered.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Mickey whispered as he lifted Ian into the chair. That’s when his brain shuts off. Every time. Every single time he dreams about the day his mind just shuts off because he just can’t. He knows what happened, Ian knows what happened, but he just can’t bear to relive it, anything, any other day but that day.

Even though Terry didn’t touch him that day, he thinks the wedding was the fourth attempt. He couldn’t have explained it, but it felt like a different kind of murder, but murder none the less.

His mind opens back up to the night at the Alibi. Ian, Lana and he had sort of had an agreement since Terry went back in the can. Mickey heard his dad talking about queers and someone attempting to rape him in prison, which, honestly Mickey thinks is kind of running because he’s sexually assaulted both his youngest children and how fucking dare he. Him and Ian had been in a rough spot since Yev was born because neither one truly knew what it meant for them going forward. Not the mention that fact that Mickey could barely look at Yev or Lana since that day.

Ian had heard his father’s bullshit as well, because of course he’d wanted to tag along, only to be pissed when Mickey couldn’t give him what he wanted, didn’t have the balls to give him the attention he deserved, so he got pissed. And then Mickey got pissed and then everything went to shit.

“…Queers try to rape a Milkovich…” He hears to his left. He’s done. He fucking done and he doesn’t care anymore because he’d not going to let Terry rule his life forever. He picks up his beer bottle and throws it at the wall over Terry’s head. “Fuck you, Daddy!” He’s screaming now, “Mick?” He hears Ian ask, still staring at his father. “I’m fuckin’ gay you piece of shit, and I fuckin’ hate you. Ian’s been fuckin’ me for years; you pathetic old man. You couldn’t stop it, you couldn’t beat it out of me, it just fucking is and you can’t fix it because there’s nothing fuckin’ wrong. I have been the perfect fucking son, taking care of everything while you were in an’ out of the clink. Fuck you.” He spat venomously.

“I’ll fucking kill you!” Terry screamed and charged. The fight was all a blur, mostly because it happened so fast, or maybe his brain just couldn’t sort it out right now.

He remembered hearing his brother to the side saying “this is it? This is why Mickey always gets the beatings, why Dad always look an inch away from killing him? For this fucking shit. That’s like Dad trying to kill him for having black hair.” He was obviously talking to Mandy, before jumping into the fight.

Mickey woke up the next morning laughing lightly to himself, thinking about the cop car bullshit. If anyone asked, he’d call it performance art. What? It sounds better than “the massive nervous breakdown of the neighborhood thug.”

Mickey turned to Ian, knowing that their next big problem was going to have something to do with what the fuck has been going on with Ian since the wedding, but he assumes they have a bit of time to figure that out, and make sure he’s okay.

So Mickey made a mental list, of all the horrible things he’d seen his father do over the years, all the things that he and his sister had been victims of. Things he could talk about and things he couldn’t.

 

 

 

They moved into the Milkovich house with Lana, Ig, Mandy, and Yev. Ian turned out to be bipolar, which wasn’t something any of them had really seen coming, but they got him the help he needed, and things started to stabilize in his life, for the first time ever. They were good together, all of them, they’d figured it out. Mickey fell off his chair laughing the day Iggy brought a guy home. Mickey and Ian were sitting at the table eating pancakes and making stupid eyes at each other when Iggy and who Mickey assumed was a new friend came through the door. Iggy nodded in Mickey’s direction and just said “Brother…Boyfriend” Mickey didn’t pay it much attention because he assumed Iggy was talking about him and Ian. He didn’t pay much attention until something hit him in the back of the head.

“Fuck head. I’m trying to introduce you to someone here?” Iggy fumed.

“Wha?” Mickey said, fuck off, it was still early.

“Mick, this is my boyfriend, Chuck.” He said, formally.

“Chuck, this is my idiot brother and his partner, Ian.” Iggy said motioning around the room with his hand.

“You’re gay?” Mickey could feel his eye brows lifting.

“Whoa whoa whoa, calm down there, Elton John. Bisexual. Means I like both.” He said firmly.

“I know what fuckin’ bisexual is dumbass. I guess this explains you asking how I have sex, because in no way was that not weird.”

So, they had another six months of peace and quiet. Iggy was so thankful to Mickey for being the one to come out in front of their Dad. Iggy had explained that he knew he was different, just wasn’t sure how and knew that he wasn’t gay, but knew he was attracted to both men and women, and after Mickey’s coming out, he was finally able to figure himself out in the absence of their father. Mickey got the call on a Tuesday.

“This is Eileen from the Illinois department of correction. I’m looking for Colin Milkovich.” The voice on the other end of the phone said.

“Fuckin’ here.” Mickey lied.

“I’m just calling to let you know your father went up for parole and he was approved, he should be getting out in about six weeks.”

Mickey was shaking. His father only got one year on a parole violation and Mickey felt like he was being bombarded by everything his father has even done rushing back to him in a haze. His breaths were coming in short, choppy ways. He was having a panic attack. Ian was there rubbing his back and murmuring soothing things in his ear, while kissing his temple and rubbing his hair. "It's going to be okay, Ian. I promise."

Ian left for work at the Kash and Grab, after making sure that Mickey was okay being on his own after the call. He’d started back there after he got his bipolar under control, because there was no way that he could continue dancing at the club. It was bad for his health and his relationship.

After Ian left for work, Mickey scoured his room until he found the list he’d made the morning after coming out. He knew he’d saved it for a reason, and he knew what he was going to do now.

“May I please speak with detective Markovich?” Mickey asked when he entered the police station.

The cop behind the desk chuckled, obviously not expecting Mickey to be on the other side of the counter instead of locked in a cell. “Never thought I’d see you on the right side of the law.” He said before going off to find Tony.

Mickey was fucking terrified. This wasn’t something you did. This wasn’t something HE did.  You didn’t rat on family. That was the most important rule in the Milkovich house growing up. More important even than not being a boy who loved boys. But Mickey also refused to die for Terry’s stupid shit, he refused to let Ian become a victim again, refused to let Terry ever touch Iggy or Chuck or Lana and Nika, was never going to let Terry get near Mandy again.

Tony came up to the front of the station. “Mickey?” He asked, eyebrows climbing steadily higher. “I need to report some crimes.” He said looking at the ground. “Okay, what kind and against who?”

“Terry Milkovich.” He said. And the cop behind Tony snorted. “Yeah right, Milkovich ratting on their own, Tony, you know this is bullshit, why are you even listening to this piece of trash?”

Mickey just kept going hating the words out of his mouth almost as much as he hated his father. He pressed on, not looking at the disbelieving cop behind Tony. He’d come here to speak to Tony and he knew Tony would believe him. Tony was South Side through and through and he knew that if Mickey was there it was for a damn good reason.

“I’m here to report the sexual assaults of,” he took a deep breath because he hated thinking about it like that, made him feel weak and ashamed, but he needed to protect them, all of them- “Mikhail Milkovich, Ian Gallagher and Svetlana Kordokova, along with the rape of Amanda Milkovich.” Then he told them everything.

Three years later Frank Gallagher killed Terry Milkovich in the clink. He’d gotten himself locked up for cashing a dead woman’s social security checks for somewhere around twenty years. It was easy enough to bait Terry into a fight-all he had to do was mention that Terry’s son took it up the ass from Frank’s.

Frank had sobered up in jail, and while everyone knew it would only last until he got out, Frank had time to reflect on some things-and realized that while he was on the outside he couldn’t help anyone, not even himself, but in here he could actually help his kid, the one he’d always been the hardest on and resented unfairly.

Frank got out a year later, the fight having been ruled Terry’s fault. He started drinking again almost immediately, passing out on the front lawn once again, just like old times. The more things change the more they stay the same.

 

 

 

 


End file.
